https://ametia.files.wordpress.com/2014/08/michael-brown.jpg
After living at home in New York City for my first 22 years, I decided to live on my own for the first time when I went to law school. I moved to Boulder, Colorado seeking a change of pace from the hustle and aggression of New York City. I've been away for 3 years.
My mom still worries about me.
When I visited home during the winter break of my third year of law school I stayed for a month. One night, I came home pretty late, sometime around 3AM. When I went upstairs to check on her, she was awake. I went into her room and we talked for a while.
During our conversation, we heard the loud, low buzz of a police helicopter flying overhead. You know it's a police helicopter, because that's the only thing that's flying around that late at night. With a solemnity that I'm not used to, she said "I'm glad you're home"
I smiled it off, because she always has and always will worry about me when I'm not there. I've always thought, there was never a reason to worry about me. I've got good friends who've always steered me clear of trouble. I've got a clean record without so much as a driving infraction on it. I've spent most of my time either at home or in a library.
The older I get, the more I understand that none of these things actually matter.
The older I get, the more I understand that I'm still at risk of being a target, wherever I go. I remember an incident at a McDonald's while I was in college. While I was eating my breakfast sandwich, two cops strolled in. They walk in and stop right in front of me. One officer immediately puts his hand on his holstered gun. The other one asks me for my ID. I can't possibly imagine why I'm being stopped, but I comply with the officer's request. I put down the sandwich. I let him know that I'm reaching for my wallet. I reach in and hand him my driver's license and my John Jay College ID. I told him that I'm a student there. The entire time I'm trying to focus on the officer asking me questions while looking at the officer with his hand on his gun. People in the building watch me and the officers, assuming who knows what. After a second, they return my ID, said that they thought I was truant in a mumbled tone and leave. Just a simple stop in New York City. There was no reason to believe that I was doing anything wrong, a show of force, but at least they let me go. I'm one of the lucky ones.
At least I didn't get shot that day. When I was younger I was aware of the story of Amadou Diallo (shot 41 times, unarmed, police claimed he was reaching for a gun). In high school, there was Sean Bell (the day before his wedding, police shot his car 50 times, unarmed). Those are just the New York stories and even then, the ones that were publicized. That doesn't include the many unnamed people who have been bruised and battered at the hands of officers using excessive force. That doesn't include the people who have been killed whose names I will never know because the media didn't see fit to report it. That doesn't include the long history in this country of people who look like me who have been killed by law enforcement for no reason at all.
When I was younger, the victims were always older. Now that I'm 25, in the demographic of young black and male, ripe for being mistreated. What's worse is the character assassinations that happen after a killing. People ask "Why would the police do this?" The media responds in kind, presenting pictures of the victim that attempt to justify the unjustifiable. There's a search for a story, a tidbit, anything that can justify the homicide at the hand of law enforcement. Maybe it's a school suspension for marijuana use. Maybe it's that the victim has tattoos. Maybe they just look thuggish, whatever that means.
When I was a first year law student, I remember leaving the school after a long day of classes. As I depart the wonderful confines of Wolf Law, a lady stares at me. She then looks at her companion and says, matter-of-factly "There's so many thugs here". This is in Boulder, Colorado. I don't even look in her direction and proceed to walk away.
For the record, at the time, I weighed just over 150 lbs, I was about 6 feet tall and I was carrying a heavy Torts textbook. I was also black at the time, as I always am. If that's your definition of thug, there's nothing I can do to change your frame of reference.
When I look at Ferguson, Missouri, and see the story of yet another homicide. I'm upset and sad. It's another unarmed kid whose name I shouldn’t know. This kid, Michael Brown, was supposed to be starting college this week, in a world where many black men don't. He had no criminal record. From reports, he's a prototypical "nice guy". And now he's dead. Killed in cold blood. Since then there have been protests and law enforcement has responded with more excessive shows of force, swat gear and wrongfully arresting reporters.
I remember after the Trayvon Martin death, when people had pictures and Facebook statuses saying "I am Trayvon Martin".
I am NOT Mike Brown. I got to go to college and graduate. When I graduated from law school, my mom got to visit me. She was able to come to my apartment, go to the campus and see the man I've become. She got to see me walk across the stage and interact with classmates who I respect and who respect me. I get to write Facebook statuses about my success and failures as I transition from being a boy to a man. When I see people asking "#IfTheyGunnedMeDown What picture will they use", it's a thought exercise and a hypothetical, not something that has actually happened to me. But most importantly I woke up this morning with a new day to succeed and fail again.
Even if the police in Ferguson, MO are reprimanded and "brought to justice", none of that will bring Michael Brown back. None of that will bring a son back to his now grieving mother. None of that will allow him to smile and say I'll be fine as he goes off to school. Michael Brown won't get those opportunities. His life will always be a life snuffed out too soon.
And it hurts…
No comments:
Post a Comment